


the writer

by bluebeholder



Series: the accidental epic [17]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Confessions, Couch Cuddles, Domestic Bliss, House Cleaning, M/M, The Ghost of Alexander Hamilton Haunts This Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 18:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11674908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: "Safety" is no longer relative. Credence and Percival are living in a tiny house in the hinterlands of Russia, away from the dangers of Grindelwald or MACUSA. On a whim one cold winter night, Credence picks up a new hobby. There are revelations.





	the writer

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everybody! :) We're back with more serious Credence/Percival, and we FINALLY get to see their relationship from Credence's perspective. There is so much domesticity here, you guys...

“You know,” Percival says loudly, “we could do this by magic.”

“Or not,” Credence replies cheerfully. He’s on his knees in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor. If Percival is doing what Credence asked, he’s dusting the study. He suspects, however, that Percival is not doing this.

“We’d be done quicker.”

Credence sits up and presses his hands to the small of his back. He forgets how uncomfortable physical labor can be sometimes. But constant use of magic does the body no favors, and Credence is terrible at cleaning charms anyway. “It’s almost negative forty degrees outside. What else are we doing?”

Percival sticks his head into the kitchen. “I can think of _many_ more entertaining things,” he says, with a suggestive smirk.

“Out!” Credence says, laughing, and flicks his wrist to send a damp rag flying across the room at Percival. He ducks out of the way, back down the hall to presumably clean something.

The convenient thing about living in a house with five rooms is that cleaning it takes next to no time, even without magic. Finishing the kitchen floor does take a bit longer than strictly necessary, since of the more mobile plants he keeps on the windowsill—a gift from Newt—has a habit of emptying half its pot onto the floor. Still, by the time Credence is done. Percival has dusted the entire house. They work together on the windows and the rest of the kitchen, getting in each other’s way. Percival tries to empty a bucket of water over Credence’s head; Credence retaliates by using a subtle Shrinking Charm to drop the table five inches in height so Percival trips when he tries to lean on it. 

It takes them until seven in the evening to finish up, by which time it’s pitch-dark outside, they’re both tired, and have no desire to make a proper dinner. Percival makes half a loaf of bread’s worth of toast and brews coffee; Credence accepts the toast and makes himself some tea. There’s only a minor, playful scuffle over what to put on their bread. Of course Percival has to roll his eyes at the fact that Credence is fully willing to eat an entire jar of jam with just four pieces of toast; Credence, in the process of staining his lips with blackberry jam, has to scoff at Percival’s insistence that butter is the only thing to use. Otherwise, they eat in companionable silence. 

Credence considers, watching Percival across the table, how far they’ve come. Last year, around this time in January, Credence was a small cloud of angry shadows and frightened magic hiding under a bridge, while Percival was just returning home from his convalescence in the hospital. Now here they are, safe and hidden from the many people who want them both dead. 

It’s taken a while to get a house at all. They made it to China by the middle of August 1927, and spent the rest of that month, all of September, and half of October in Canton. The Chinese government had granted them asylum, albeit with conditions. One of those conditions was that Credence had to stay where the Party could keep an eye on him. Another was that Newt had to give up any and all information on Obscurials he had for public study.

Percival, Jacob, and Tina, between them, managed the high-level negotiations. MACUSA wanted them back, but Tina had been right: Madame Ya Zhou was not inclined to hand a tremendously powerful Obscurial back over when she’d personally seen the damage Credence could do. The rest of the ICW had caved when Russia threw its support behind China, and at least for the moment Credence was safe. 

Of course, the Chairwoman didn’t want to keep him around forever. He was a liability, and so they had to find somewhere else to take refuge. It had taken until the beginning of December to convince the Russians to let them move Credence permanently into a safe place, far away from other people, and this house had been the result.

Credence couldn’t be happier, honestly. It’s the first time in his life where he feels ordinary, really ordinary. He has time to do things that he wants to do, without worrying about punishment or pain, and while it’s still not second nature for him to do anything that he wants for himself, he’s getting better. He likes that. He also really likes being able to say no. He does sometimes, just for the hell of it, just acts contrary because he can. 

And for whatever reason, despite all of Credence’s shortcomings, Percival is still here. Credence had expected Percival to leave, once Credence was settled; there were lots of places the older man could have gone, if he wanted. The French Ministry of Magic wanted him as a consultant in their Auror office, a private research group had offered him a position, and even the Durmstrang school of magic had tried to hire him as a professor. He’d turned down every single offer. 

Neither Percival nor Credence are the kind who want lots of company. Credence is content to stay right here, far away from the rest of the world, and so far as he can tell Percival is happy to do the same. This is all still very new, this being alone together. Their friends had been here through the end of December, until they’d finally worked out a solution with the British Ministry of Magic that would allow them all to stay in England. Jacob and Queenie plan to finally open that bakery; Newt is setting out again, and Tina will go with him. 

That leaves Credence alone here with Percival. And tonight, with a blizzard raging through the mountains around them, blocking them in, they’re more isolated than ever. Credence absolutely couldn’t be happier with this state of affairs.

“Something on your mind?” Percival asks.

“Oh—no, sorry,” Credence says, jolted from his thoughts.

Percival gets to his feet, coffee cup in hand. “No need to apologize,” he says. “You looked distant, that’s all. A little lost.”

Credence pushes his chair back and follows Percival the three steps across the kitchen. He wraps his arms around Percival’s waist, pressing his head against the back of the older man’s neck. “Not lost,” he says. “Right here.”

There’s a small bump as Percival sets down his cup. He turns and gets his arms around Credence, and Credence instantly relaxes into him. He suspects that there will never be a time when that doesn’t happen. Right now Percival smells like coffee, the dust from earlier that clings to his shirt, and, underneath those, the always-lurking smoke and fire of his magic. And there’s that distinct, impossible-to-describe scent that’s just _him_. It all means _safety_ to Credence. It means that he’s not alone. 

As is becoming a habit, they migrate to what will be the study. It will be better when they get all the books Percival insists they need. Credence is in favor of this. For the moment, though, they’ve got what they took originally from Percival’s house in New York, the grimoires and textbooks that Credence claimed from Newt, several that they picked up while in Canton, and a few that their friends gave them upon arrival. 

“Is this how things are forever, now?” Credence asks. It’s a rather juvenile question, but Percival generally doesn’t seem to mind those. Percival sits on one end of the sofa, and Credence stretches out with his head in Percival’s lap. Supposedly, the book in Percival’s hand is going to be read tonight: practically speaking, that just won’t happen. 

Percival runs his fingers through Credence’s hair and Credence closes his eyes in enjoyment. “I think forever is a strong word,” Percival says. “I thought a lot of things were forever, when I was twenty-four. And then. Well.”

“I happened,” Credence murmurs, folding his hands over his stomach. 

“I’m not complaining,” Percival says. Credence hears a smile in his voice. “All I’m saying is…don’t think that things will never change for us.”

“Us?”

Percival shifts slightly, reaching out to set the book aside, and his other hand comes to rest on Credence’s shoulder. “Yes.”

Credence bites the inside of his lip for a moment. It takes him a moment, gathering his courage, before he asks, “For how long?”

“We’re one thing I’d like to try to keep forever,” Percival says quietly. 

The words are reassuring, even if Credence doesn’t entirely believe them. And he can’t quite let the subject go. “I only mean—haven’t we moved fast, with all this?”

“A bit. Things like this grow quick under fire.”

“And we were under fire, I suppose.”

Percival chuckles. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever been under worse. Are you worried about us?”

Credence sighs and turns his head a bit, shifting closer to Percival’s body. He doesn’t open his eyes. This is an easier conversation to have, when he doesn’t have to look. “Not us now. Us…later. Um. I don’t think I’m making sense.”

“No, I understand,” Percival says. “Next year, the year after that, ten years from now. Nineteen-forty-four, even.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “What happens later?”

Percival’s hand never stops moving, combing through Credence’s hair, soothing even though Credence’s nerves feel jangled. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I know I’d like to keep what we’ve got.”

“What if it turns out that we were wrong about how we feel?” Credence asks. His voice _wobbles_ , and he hates it. He sounds like he’s standing on a corner with papers in his hand again. 

“Do you feel wrong now?” Percival asks. The question—though his tone isn’t heavy—is ominous and Credence flinches a little. He knows that Percival wouldn’t do anything to him if he said yes, but at the same time, the nerves don’t go away.

“No,” he says quietly. “I feel right. More right than I’ve felt in years.” 

“Then that’s what matters,” Percival says.

Credence doesn’t continue the conversation. It doesn’t take away his worries. He’s not good enough for Percival and never will be. Percival is the best man Credence knows. He’s a great wizard, a magnificent leader, handsome and competent and smart. And Credence—well, Credence is still just a too-thin freak from the streets who doesn’t deserve to be in the same room as Percival. Let alone like this, quiet and intimate.

“You think so much,” Percival says. “Should write some of it down.”

“What?” Credence’s eyes pop open. 

Percival shrugs. “I know you don’t say half of what’s in your head,” he says. “Might as well save it on paper.”

Credence turns his head and looks at the desk. They have paper and pens and so on, for sending off letters and things, but the thought of using the supplies for something so frivolous has never occurred to him at all. “Do you mean…like a journal?”

“Whatever you like,” Percival says. “I’m not a writer. You, though…I don’t doubt you could be.”

At that, Credence sits up and crawls into Percival’s lap, arms around Percival’s neck. “I’m fairly sure you’re biased,” he says.

Percival’s hands come to rest on Credence’s lower back, thumbs running along the waistband of Credence’s pants. “Oh?”

“You’d say that about anything I tried to do.”

Their noses brush together and Percival smiles. “And it would still be true.”

“Oh, stop flattering me,” Credence murmurs, shutting Percival up with a kiss. 

They make their way to bed. Credence is distracted, for a while. Since that night in the suitcase, intimacy has been an interesting thing. Hesitancy came back for Credence and Percival still has trouble with feeling guilty all the time. They’re working it out. Tonight is good—slow, sleepy, over just before Credence can’t keep his eyes open anymore. 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, a familiar energy burning at his fingertips. It feels like…like the Obscurus. Like the shadows inside him are trying to emerge again. But different, somehow. It’s not self-destructive tonight. There’s nothing painful here.

Careful not to wake Percival, Credence slides out of bed. He doesn’t bother with anything more than pajama pants; there’s something pulling at him, the whispers that usually herald an awful lot of blood and fire promising something _different_. Credence follows them down the hall and into the study. He sits down at the desk and, almost in a trance, pulls a piece of paper toward him and picks up a pen. The words aren’t premeditated. He doesn’t know what he’s going to write until he sets the pen to paper and begins to write. 

_I am twenty-four years old. I was raised by a woman with not an ounce of true charity in her heart in a church where desire was the greatest sin it was possible to commit. Anyone in the world would agree that I have no experience in matters of the heart. But I believe that by a miracle—perhaps by the intervention of God Himself—I have come into possession of the single greatest gift given to man: unconditional love…_

Credence has no idea how long he writes. He doesn’t think, barely stops to shake out his hand once in a while to take away the cramps, can barely make himself stop long enough to pick up another piece of paper. The words fill up page after page in his twisted, curling handwriting. He couldn’t stop if he wanted. And he doesn’t want to, anyway. His thoughts sprawl out. He cites chapter and verse, writes words he didn’t even realize he knew. 

_Indeed, Christ tells us that “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,” and he has offered to lay down his life a hundred times and has laid down his life for me. And this is a proof that, somehow, he has found things in me worth loving, unconditionally and without exception. Out with thoughts that I am unworthy: who am I to decide that I am not worthy of love freely given?…_

He doesn’t even notice when dawn breaks. The only thing that he does notice is when Percival knocks on the doorframe. “Credence?”

Feeling like a sleepwalker, Credence raises his head from the page and turns to the door. “Is it morning already?”

Percival is shirtless, mussed with sleep, the crease of a pillow on his face. “Yes. Did you sleep at all last night?”

Credence rises to his feet, leaving the manuscript where it lies. Who even knows if it’s good, if it’s worth reading? He feels as if there’s been a catharsis, though; as if he’s cleaned himself, freed himself from the dark thoughts of last night. “Sleep is for those that haven't been struck with inspiration,” he says with a smile, and then yawns so widely that his jaw cracks.

Percival draws him out into the kitchen. “Inspiration…did you really start writing?”

“Wouldn’t leave me alone,” Credence says, sitting down at the table. He’ll wait for Percival to make coffee, thanks. “Just couldn’t stop it.”

“If you don’t mind. Could I…”

“Read all you want,” Credence says, gesturing widely. “It’s probably terrible. I wrote it all in a night, you know, so.”

They eat breakfast and go their separate ways. Credence decides that it’s in his best interest to sleep at least a little, while Percival gets dressed and prepares to do…whatever it is he’s going to do today. Judging by the heavy coat and boots, probably get snow off the roof, since the howling part of the blizzard is mostly past. 

By the time Credence gets out of bed again, he’s almost forgotten about the impulsive writing of last night. He dresses and wanders out into the house. The study is empty, and—odd, there are no papers on the desk. Did Percival really pick them up to read? 

He walks into the sitting room and stops. Percival is standing by the window, back to Credence, one hand pressed to his face. The manuscript Credence scrawled out last night is next to him. 

“Was it that bad?” Credence asks, suddenly nervous. 

Next thing he knows, Percival is across the room with his arms around Credence. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Credence has no idea what’s happening. He can feel the tension in the room, and then he remembers just what the hell he wrote last night. It was a very, very passionate defense of the reasons why he deserves Percival—and most of them have to do with the fact that, much as Credence hates himself, Percival doesn’t. And that alone is proof.

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,” Percival says suddenly. Credence’s heart jumps into his throat and he almost tries to turn around and run because he doesn’t know what to _do_ , hearing these words from Percival’s lips. 

“You…” Credence starts, but Percival doesn’t stop. And suddenly he’s not quoting the Bible, he’s quoting _Credence_. 

“And he has offered to lay down his life a hundred times and has laid down his life for me. And this is a proof that, somehow, he has found things in me worth loving, unconditionally and without exception,” Percival continues. He’s practically trembling, and the tenor of his voice changes. He’s not reciting passages from the essay anymore. “Is that what you think of me?”

Credence nods, not daring to speak.

“You realize,” Percival says, voice shaking, “that what you wrote is what I think of you?”

“Oh no,” Credence says. He feels like his knees are going to give out. “No. Percival, that’s…”

“I don’t say it because I’m _bad_ at this,” Percival says. “I don’t know how to tell you about what you mean to me. I can protect you, I can take care of you, I can’t…if you’re afraid that you don’t deserve to be with me because I don’t say anything, I’m sorry, I should have said something sooner.” 

He stops, and Credence isn’t sure what to do. “It’s not because of you,” Credence says. “It’s because of me. I’m just…I’m still the boy in the warehouse.”

“No, you aren’t,” Percival says. “ _Listen_. You are the reason I’m alive. I was ready to die. I wanted to die. I still do. You make me want to live, all right? _I_ don’t deserve _you_.”

It’s jumbled and chaotic—Percival really is not someone who’s fantastic with words, when he’s emotional—but the message is loud and clear in the hand fisted in Credence’s shirt, the way Percival cups the back of Credence’s neck, the way Percival has pressed their bodies together. Credence doesn’t know what to say, what to do, because impassioned defense or not he still doesn’t believe himself. 

Percival kisses him hard and Credence returns it because he might not really believe that he deserves this, but that’s not going to stop him from taking it. Credence is the one who pulls away first, and he studies Percival’s face. “So I’m going to guess you liked it,” he says, a slightly desperate attempt to end this conversation. 

“I liked it,” Percival says, cracking a smile. “As if you couldn’t tell.”

“I definitely couldn’t,” Credence says, rolling his eyes expressively, and they both laugh shakily. 

“You should keep writing,” Percival says. “Needs some polish, but…you really are good.”

The whispers rattle around Credence’s head and it feels like flint striking steel. “If I wrote something else…”

“I’d read it.” Percival kisses his cheek. “Going to start now?”

“I think so,” Credence says. 

Percival lets him go and gives him a small push toward the study. “Good luck, love.”

Credence, already half in the clouds, words drifting through his head and vision, distracts himself long enough to smile at Percival. “I think I’m going to need it.”

“And try to pull yourself away long enough to eat,” Percival calls after him.

“You’d better come get me,” Credence says, stopping and looking over his shoulder. “I’ll forget.”

“I won’t forget about you,” Percival says. His smile makes Credence’s heart do odd things in his chest. “I never will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to [honeybun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun) for the blackberry jam, that’s a nod to their fic “[A Study in Pining and Blackberry Jam](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9522989)”.


End file.
